


la dame du cirque

by Amethystlantern



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/F, Ficlet, Inspired by Poetry, One Shot, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Short One Shot, it's mostly a metaphor, made a few cosmetic edits, same title but now it's Fancy, some stabbing but only a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 16:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15710655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethystlantern/pseuds/Amethystlantern
Summary: Meg dreams of lives she might have had with Christine, twisted lives, but in the end reality feels like the performance.





	la dame du cirque

Every unconscious moment.

From her life in Paris she sleeps into a duo trapeze act in Toulouse. One leg wrapped around a bar, floating over a pit of spikes. Red silk ropes held them up. A hand wrapped around Christine’s ankle, as she reached down towards the pit. In the dream she’s strong enough to pull Christine up. They swing, back and forth, keeping a delicate balance. Their legs entwined, and their arms grabbed the ropes. A swing, a twist, and she had to resist the urge to pirouette. This dance was familiar for something shocking and new. The insane desire to do away with the gaping mouthed audience overcame her. She pulled up and drew Christine towards the bar, but slipped. Christine laughed, let go, and fell. Down, down, and the horrible noise. A spike through her heart, the tip red and smiling too. And Meg, still dangling from the ceiling, leg entangled with rope.

Leg entangled.

Entwined.

Red.

Meg’s eyes shot open, but she wasn’t a circus lady. She was laying in the pile of Papa’s newspapers in the attic. Interwoven, Meg's bare legs and hers. Her skin was soft, and safe. Nothing was swinging, no one was singing, or dancing. This was the news. A note from the editor had rubbed off on Christine’s cheek. Still half asleep, she mumbled to herself, “Esteemed Mr. Editor, I’m writing about last week’s article on the acrobat’s accident…” Meg quieted, she’d taken it too far. It meant nothing. She already knew this was the dream too. She turned over, and tried to spread the fabric sheet over the paper ones. The dust was dense and cloying, Papa's collection hadn't been touched in a long time.

Christine shifted, and curled around Meg. She buried her face in the side of Meg’s neck, cutting to the core through the haze. She put her lips to Meg's ear and whispered, “They hold their breath when they watch me dance.”

Meg felt a chill down her spine, “I don’t understand.”

Suddenly, the feeling of falling caught up to her too.

Meg was on the ground, alone, half dressed, in Christine’s dressing room. The red carpet wasn't much of a cushion for the impact. The air felt stuffy and restrained and she couldn’t help but blush. She knew better than to wonder where her obsession had gone. Christine was hard to pin down.

She felt something glide past her leg to the ground as she stood up: another ominous note. Sealed and signed and written. Another marker of control. She wondered what it was like to be powerful. Oh she had strong legs— hell, maybe even strong enough for the trapeze act—- but she couldn’t even make the girl stay, much less follow. Meg would feel better if Christine was at least following herself.

She pushed it all out of her mind, trying to get herself back to presentable, but she left it with one thought.

What is it like to be the ringmaster?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the poem "The Acrobat" (Die Tsirkus Dame in Yiddish), by Celia Dropkin. You can find it if you scroll down here: https://www.vqronline.org/essays-articles/2014/04/fully-loaded-poetry-celia-dropkin
> 
> Also this video was useful: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjwtaVwWS70


End file.
